Page 5 of Bossy Hero

Sixteen years ago

Fort Benning Army Base outside of Columbus, GA

The bell rings, and I stand and throw my hands over my head in celebration. “Knockout!Woo!”

Leo Mason, or Lionheart, as we call him, joins me, hooting and hollering. The others in the room—the losers—fill the air with a chorus of grunts, grumbles, and groans.

And I just laugh and laugh.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I also flip them off, individually and then collectively. One hand then the other. “I warned you not to doubt me, ladies. Now, pay the fuck up.”

“Son of a bitch,” Collins grumbles, rubbing his palm over his buzz cut from back to front punishingly. He’ll go bald if he keeps treating his scalp like that. “My arms are made of Jell-O after all that PT we fucking did this week.”

“Want me to call your mama, Shep?” I tease him while patting his head like a puppy dog. “Need me to fill a bubble bath for you?”

A twinge of guilt pricks at me, remembering the whereabouts of his mother—a mental institution. But he quickly dispels my worries with a boisterous laugh. He playfully swats my hands away and rises off the couch to move into push-up position with the other yahoos.

A group of soldiers from our Ranger unit are here at my quarters to watch the fight. Not only do they owe me and Lionheart fifty bucks each, but they have a hundred push-ups to rub salt in the wound of backing the wrong man.

Never bet against me. They should know better.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a sixth sense for picking winners—especially in individual sports like boxing. And now these fuckers know it.

Sawyer adds a clap between his first few push-ups to show off.

Collins curses him out. “If you don’t quit hot dogging, he’s going to make us pay, fuckface.”

Undeterred, Sawyer fires back one of his dumb impressions. “I won’t quit. Goonies never say die.”

Lionheart puts his giant foot on Sawyer’s back to add extra weight as he counts off his push-ups. His impression stops in its tracks, and he no longer claps like a showboating asshat.

I live for this shit—hanging out with the boys after a hard day of training. These guys are like my kids. All of them fucked up in their own way. Imperfect but good-hearted. Just like me. But younger and with more life left to live.

Wearing a shit-eating grin, I gather the empty bottles from the coffee table.

Without speaking, Stillman scurries over to assist. He didn’t bet on the fight. So he’s neither gloating in victory nor suffering the punishment.

Keeping his eyes downcast, he swipes the two bottles I’d managed to grab thus far right from my hands. “I got it. You can sit, Sarge.”

I furrow my brows at him. “Are you kissing ass? On a Saturday, no less?”

“Not at all, Sarge. Just showing my appreciation for the invite.” He offers an awkward head tip, then disappears around the corner into the kitchen with all the bottles. When he pops back out, he brings a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaning spray. Silently, he kneels beside the coffee table and begins scrubbing.

I invited him this afternoon to see if he’d open up and interact with the other guys in a more casual setting. And that idea failed. He barely said three words during the entire fight.

Tomer Stillman is an odd one, and I haven’t figured him out yet. He makes vanilla seem spicy. Silent. Stoic. Smart as hell, but awkward as fuck. Always tense. Rarely smiles. And he has a knack for being simultaneously observant and oblivious. He’s a mystery.

But there’s more going on with him than what he lets show. It’s all hidden under the surface. He reeks of sadness, although he tries to conceal it. I’d like to peel back his outer layer and see what’s inside that made him this way. I suspect he needs help. Yet, until he opens up, I can’t do that. I’ve tried, but he’s very hesitant to talk. For now, I’ll bide my time and watch.

After grabbing a beer from the fridge, I return to the living room.

The grunts grow louder as Sawyer, Wiggins, Collins, Bowman, and Klein pay the price for making a fool’s bet on the fight.

“Where’s Lionheart?” I ask no one in particular.

Sawyer freezes at the top of his push-up to answer. “On the porch. Phone call.”

As I saunter by, I press my foot on his back in much the same way Lionheart did earlier.

---